


As The Days Keep Turning Into Night

by yourebrilliant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourebrilliant/pseuds/yourebrilliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post Reichenbach fic from John's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As The Days Keep Turning Into Night

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song [All My Days](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-VQXTN1m60) by Alexi Murdoch and best read while listening to the song, although obviously not required

Pale green eyes, warm and determined and sparkling with inappropriate glee. The sharp blast of a fired gun, a long, black blur, laughing and shoving him back into the changing rooms. The familiar sound of an explosion, a burst of warmth and a flare of orange. Giggling. Darkness. Silence. As often as he’ll berate his memory, thump his brain, stare out the window on long sleepless nights, this is still all he’ll remember of those fateful moments.

 

He doesn’t wake up for a month. Harry is sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed, clutching his hand in her sleep, new worry lines creasing her forehead. Something alerts him to a presence in the doorway and he looks round to see Clara standing there, watching Harry. She puts a finger to her lips when she realises he’s awake, then, eyes bright, she goes off to get a nurse.

 

His first question is about Sherlock. Harry bites her lip and avoids his eye. It is left to Clara to tell him the tragic truth. That Sherlock shielded John from the worst of the blast. That he didn’t manage to save himself the way he saved John. John growls, ‘Stupid bastard,’ and says nothing more. Harry, Clara, and the nurse checking his vitals pretend they can’t see the tears that fill his eyes. He waits till the nurse has left and Clara has taken Harry to get a drink before he lets them fall.

 

He has to wait two weeks before the hospital will discharge him. Every day people come to visit; Mike, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, even Sally. And every night, Harry and Clara sit in vigil beside his bed. They don’t speak, Harry and him, but Clara talks to him, when she sends Harry to eat. She tells him how Harry’s doing. How _they_ are doing. He tells her he’s happy for them and tries not to think of Sherlock and missed chances.

 

Eventually he has to leave Harry and Clara’s house. Eventually he has to go back. They come with him as far as the front door, but he enters the flat alone. A hug and a kiss goodbye and they leave him, waving and insisting he come for dinner at the weekend. It takes him another minute – and several deep breaths – before he can open the door. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but this isn’t it. Someone, he suspects Mycroft, has been in while he’s in hospital and cleared it all out, all of Sherlock’s things. The living room table is clear of junk, the bookshelves are almost empty, and the kitchen table is so bare that the acid splashes and suspicious stains are clearly visible. Tentatively he opens the fridge. Mrs Hudson has filled it with food, but there’s nothing else. He searches every part of it; the door, the crisper, the top shelf that he can barely reach, both drawers in the freezer, but there is only food in the fridge. He closes the door and leans against it as tears, ugly, angry, desperate tears, fall down his cheeks and spatter on the kitchen floor.

 

That night he dreams again, not of warm sun and distant gunfire and yelling soldiers, but of pale green eyes, a burst of warmth and a flare of orange, wild laughter. Darkness. Silence.

 

Sarah has kept his job for him. When he returns he signs up for every shift going; evening surgery, on-call doctor, even house calls. He tells Sarah, tells _himself_ , that he needs the money to pay the other half of the rent. But he knows, and he suspects Sarah knows, that he fears that empty flat. That it feels like a photograph ripped in half, with only his things, his half of the flat visible and Sherlock’s half discarded, out of sight. Sarah tells him they’re glad of the extra help and squeezes his hand as she passes to go see her patients.

 

They had the service while John was unconscious. Lestrade tells him it was well attended; all the people Sherlock had helped over the years, all the Yarders, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Harry, attending in his stead. John wonders if Sherlock had any inkling of the number of people he touched in his too-short life. _Don’t make people into heroes, John_. But he was a hero to all those people. And he was a hero to John.

 

When he announces that he wants to see Sherlock’s grave, several people offer to go with him. He declines politely, and they understand, this is something he has to do alone. He can’t think of anything to take with him, so he goes empty-handed. He doubts Sherlock would’ve minded. Someone’s been there before him, leaving long-stemmed lilies on the grave. Looking around, John can see the distinctive marks where an umbrella has dented the earth near the headstone. He stands before the grave for hours, waiting for the right words to come to him. In the end, he knows that this is not Sherlock, this elegant grey headstone with a comforting quote engraved on it. Sherlock was so much more than his full name and his significant dates. There is nothing for him here. He leaves without looking back, and never returns.

 

In the beginning, there were people round all the time, Mrs Hudson “popping up”, Lestrade or Mike inviting him out for a drink, Harry and Clara checking in. As the months go on and he doesn’t recover, doesn’t bounce back, declines invitations again and again, people stop coming round, until finally he is left in the silence that he fears and craves equally.

 

Every night he has the same dream, of pale green eyes, a burst of warmth and a flare of orange, wild laughter. Darkness. Silence. When he wakes, he feels calm for a moment, before he feels the loss over again. He doesn’t cry, he’s sure there are no tears left to shed, but he gets up, goes downstairs, sits in the armchair Sherlock had claimed as his own, and stares out the window, watching the sun rise and trying to remember everything. He won’t let Sherlock’s memory slip away the way his life did.

 

Twelve months after Sherlock’s death, John finally goes into his room. It too has been stripped by Mycroft, or rather Mycroft’s minions, except for one box, tucked between the wardrobe and the bedside table and forgotten. John carries it downstairs, cracks the packing tape and breathes in the almost-forgotten scent. There’s an odd assortment of things in the box. He pulls each one out with reverential fingers, carefully unwrapping the white tissue to reveal the precious treasure within. He spends the evening carefully returning each item to its home, even the odd ones like the lab equipment to the kitchen table and the skull to the mantelpiece. He feels calmer when he’s finished. That night he falls asleep in his chair, staring at the few books he has returned to their shelves. In his dreams, he chases a wild-haired mad man through the streets of London, always just a few paces behind, as the other man laughs with wild abandon into the night. When he wakes, there are tears on his cheeks, and the sun is rising.

 

Life moves around him like a fog. His evenings are spent in trying to understand Sherlock’s remaining books. Eighteen months after Sherlock’s death, he knows more than he’ll ever need to about bee-keeping, and he finally has the London A-Z memorised. For the first time in months he goes out for something other than groceries and work; to buy a Latin dictionary and grammar book so he can translate one of Sherlock’s more obscure texts.

 

Two years after Sherlock’s death, he thinks he’s strong enough to write about his experiences again. When he tries to start up his laptop, it’s out of charge and he spends an hour digging out the cable and pacing back and forth while it charges up enough to start. When he finally gets a window open to post, he spends three hours staring at a blinking cursor before he gives up and shuts it down again. For some things, he thinks, there are no words.

 

That night he dreams of the chase again, of Sherlock just ahead, always just ahead and out of reach. He runs as fast as he can, the air burning in his lungs, and stretches his hand, reaching for the flaring tails of Sherlock’s tailored coat. He can just feel the soft material in his hand when he wakes up. He lies for long moments, waiting for his heart beat to slow and breathing to calm, and rubs the tips of his fingers together, remembering the feel of Sherlock’s coat beneath his fingertips. It is much harder to get up and go to work that day.

 

It never occurs to him to try to “move on”, to find another life, another companion. It occurs to Harry and Clara and Mrs Hudson and even Lestrade, but he is deaf to their pleas. This is his home, this is his life. All he can do is attempt to restore it, to make it right again, even if it will never really be right without Sherlock.

 

Harry and Clara send him an invitation to a wedding he already knows about, of course he knows about it, it’s his sister, he’s the best man. When the day comes he stands beside Harry and passes the rings on, watches them smile at each other and hopes that they’ll make it this time. The feeling is so foreign to him now that it takes him a few moments to identify it. When he does, it is like a tiny shaft of sunlight through heavy cloud. At the reception he dances with Harry and Clara and pretends not to see the odd looks the other guests give him. He does his duty and goes home.

 

One of the kitchen lightbulbs burns out and he has to dig around a rarely used cupboard to find a replacement. At the back, behind the oven cleaner and window spray Mrs Hudson had optimistically left for them, he finds something long hidden, protected from the light – for an experiment no doubt. It is unidentifiable – although he thinks it might once have been a finger – and disgusting, and yet he is still reluctant to throw it away. Beside it he finds an expensive-looking hardback notepad filled with instructions written in Sherlock’s precise calligraphy. The last few pages are of experiments he clearly meant to undertake, but hadn’t gotten to yet. John makes it his new project, cajoling Molly into lending him lab equipment and the relevant bits of people. With the smell of chemicals and preserved flesh in the air, the flat finally feels right again.

 

Sherlock has been gone three years the evening Mycroft comes to visit him. It is the first time Mycroft has been in the flat since Sherlock’s death, and he wanders around the living room, stroking the spines of Sherlock’s books and asking after John’s health. John wonders if he’s come to take back the items his minions left behind, he’s prepared to fight him, if he has to. These are his now. After all, Mycroft has everything else. Belatedly, he remembers his manners and excuses himself to make them some tea. When he returns, Mycroft has stopped prowling and is sitting in Sherlock’s armchair. John hands him his tea, ignoring Mycroft’s raised eyebrow at the slightly chipped mug, and sits opposite him, waiting for Mycroft to reveal the reason for his visit. Mycroft wades through his usual diplomatic hemming and hawing and then, sets his mug down and fixes John with an intense and sorrowful gaze. He has something to reveal to John, he explains. Something shocking, but which is, and he emphasises this, _good news_. And then he finally gets to the point; Sherlock is alive, was never dead. As John stares at him blankly, Mycroft explains that Sherlock felt it necessary to falsify his demise to allow him to track down Moriarty’s remaining henchmen. And now, Mycroft reveals, he has completed his task; he’s here. John’s hand shakes first, and his leg, and then it spreads till his whole body is shivering and his teeth clack together. Mycroft looks uncertain for perhaps the first time in his life, rises from his armchair and places a hand on John’s shoulder. It’s shock, Mycroft tells him. It’ll pass. John nods and tries to breathe deeply, his mind filled with only one phrase _I’m in shock, look, I’ve got a blanket!_ An inappropriate giggle rises to the surface and he can’t hold it back. Once it is free he finds he can’t stop. Each burst of laughter builds on itself and it feels like three years of laughter have been held back and are now bursting free. He laughs and laughs and tears of a different sort stream down his face. Eventually he gets himself under control and looks up at Mycroft to assure him of his continued sanity, but Mycroft is looking away, at the door. He twists in his seat and there is the most welcome sight of the last three years. He can see even from here that Sherlock is different, the lines on his face are more defined, there is a deep tiredness in his eyes and he has lost more weight than he can really afford to, but he’s there, he’s alive, and he’s watching John, waiting for his reaction, insecure for the first time in John’s memory.

Mycroft lifts his hand from John’s shoulder and somehow he manages to get his feet beneath him and stand up. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t look away from the pale green eyes that have haunted his dreams. As he crosses the room he is cataloguing all the things that need fixing; needs feeding up, vitamins from the dead look of his skin, sleep certainly. A haircut. A hug. When he stands before Sherlock, head tilted up to hold his gaze, he says the first thing that comes to mind. ‘I forgot you were so bloody tall.’

Sherlock’s mask breaks, cracking into something that might be a smile. His hand rises hesitantly between them and John grabs it and pulls Sherlock into a warm, strong hug, whether he wants it or not. Sherlock is board-stiff for a moment before he sags against John, his other arm wrapping around John’s shoulders, his head dropping to rest in the crook of John’s neck. ‘They’re gone, John, they’re all gone,’ he murmurs, his breath gusting over John’s neck. ‘I promise,’ he says fervently. ‘They’re all gone.’

‘Shh,’ John says, reaching up to stroke hand through Sherlock’s unruly black curls. ‘Shh, you mad bastard.’ For a moment, they stand like that, just holding and being held, and then John pulls away. ‘You utter pillock,’ he says fiercely, ‘I can’t believe you left me behind. No,’ he interrupts, when Sherlock opens his mouth to explain, ‘promise me that you will _never_ go off like that without me. Promise,’ he repeats. Wide-eyed, Sherlock can only nod and murmur, ‘I promise.’ John nods, satisfied with Sherlock’s promise, and reaches up to press his lips against Sherlock’s, feeling the breath pass between them, revelling in _feeling_ Sherlock’s life force, proving to himself that it is not a dream, for how could he dream so clearly something he has never experienced?

When they come up for air, Mycroft has discretely departed. John makes them both a cup of tea and they sit in their armchairs and tell tales of the last three years. Sherlock tells of tracking down Moriarty’s henchmen, interrupted only by John’s soft exclamations of ‘Brilliant!’ and ‘Fantastic!’ as he explains his deductions. John tells Sherlock which of his books he enjoyed and which ones he didn’t like or understand, and reports on the results of the experiments Sherlock hadn’t managed to complete. Sherlock looks quietly impressed at John’s grasp of Latin, and shows a spark of interest in the results of his experiments. Although they sit apart, their legs intertwine at the ankles and they smile warmly at each other as they talk. When the sun rises over Sherlock’s shoulder, John calls the practice and leaves a message to say he won’t be in that day, sorry for the late notice. For the rest of the day, they talk and plan and laugh.

That night, when John dreams of running through London with a wild-haired madman, his hand is clasped by long, pale fingers and he is laughing with the madman as they chase another challenge, solve another crime.


End file.
